Confessions of a lapsed exerciser

I am intrigued by a beret-wearing man at my gym who, every morning, tells his trainer all the foods he introduced into his diet the day before. Plus, I think his lunges are divine. I decide to hire his trainer for a session.

As it happens, his trainer, whose name is Ted, is also buying an apartment; the graceful lunger is giving him tips on up-and-coming neighborhoods. Maybe I would like some tips, too? Ted asks. "No, thanks," I say. "I can't afford to buy right now."

"That's too bad," Ted says. "It's a very good investment."

"So I hear," I say, and then, finally, Ted shows me how to lunge. After that, he shows me five different types of sit-ups. He has me using weight machines, an ab bench for crunches, the mat. He teaches me tricks with a big silver ball. Even though I feel like a trained seal, Ted promises these maneuvers will tone my butt. He shows me chest presses and some side bends that will get rid of my love handles. As I work out, I can see my muscles responding under my stretched-out tent of a midriff. The hour flies by. When I get home, I bound upstairs in record time. I shower. I shave. I put on clean clothes. I feel great. I want my husband to touch me.

I return to the gym the next day. While stealing a glimpse of my ass in the mirror, I fall off the elliptical trainer and nearly land on the treadmill to my left. I could've been run over by a speed walker and gotten killed. Frightened and ashamed, I slink over to the mat room to continue the work Ted began. I mount the sit-up machine. I can't remember what to do. I dismount and begin my work with the big silver ball, which I do remember, while waiting for someone to use the sit-up machine so I can copy. I work on my chest, my abs, then do some lunges and make my way home.

My body feels sore in a wonderful way. I move different limbs throughout the day just to feel my muscles. I shower. Again! I'm certain my jeans look better already. The exercising thing is going so well, I decide to write about it for work. Funnily enough, during the three weeks I spend writing the article, I don't make it to the gym once. I don't have time. Laundry piles up. We eat takeout. I desperately need to vacuum (and shower). I do squeeze in some at-home sessions on the pilates machine, which I am now strong enough to maneuver. It's an improvement.

My life, it seems, is a balancing act perpetually on the verge of tipping over. Exercise is one of the items on the scale, along with work, chores, eating and making contact with other humans; all of these things threaten to throw everything off kilter. What's changed is that now I accept this idea. My foray back to the gym has made me more flexible, physically and mentally. My two-hour workout sessions may be over, but getting a reasonable amount of exercise now and then feels doable. On the days I do go to the gym, I can't write as much, and we may well run out of toilet paper. But everything has to give a little, even muscle tone. What's important is that exercising here and there has made me feel stronger and more energetic. I'm also nicer to my husband, if you know what I mean.

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